Remember For Me
by Master-Patterner
Summary: Harry comes of age while having to understand the truth of the war and the ties that will see him through the greatest battle of his life.


A/N: I am just getting started writing again after awhile…I am excited to be on this site with all of you and I appreciate constructive criticism. I do not own any of these characters…they belong to J.K. Rowling, as do all the Harry Potter references et al. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy it.

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Remember For Me

Chapter 1

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_Harry…_

The sound woke him with such a fit from his otherwise dreamless sleep that Harry almost fell out of his bed. He wondered why, on such a rare night as this where he did not have his recurring nightmares, the horrible dreams that haunted him, that he should awaken with such a fright.

_Harry…_

Who was speaking?

He looked across the room to where Ron was tucked soundly in his bed, snoring and dreaming, no doubt of Quidditch and girls. Harry smiled at his best friend. They had seen a lot together, and taken some brutal hits through all of it, but they were still there, still fighting the war, still friends despite all the horror that sought to drive them apart. They had spoken earlier that day of what they would do with themselves when the war was over, and of what normal friends actually do. It was a fond thought…the end of the war. Harry had allowed himself only brief thoughts in that direction; anything longer might cause too much hope. And a hope like that hurts, no matter how sweet it is.

It was not the thought of carefree days with Ron that Harry thought about while sitting up in bed, now becoming fully awake. His thoughts also turned to Hermione, the bushy haired brunette that had become such a part of his life throughout the years, and more notably in the past couple of months. It was during the summer before their seventh year, and they trio were at the Burrow looking for some much needed rest before they set out to find the remaining Horcruxes.

Harry picked up his glasses from the nightstand and put them on. His gaze found its way to the calendar on the wall. Tomorrow was his birthday, he would be of age in the wizarding world at last. It seemed foreign to him that he would at last be considered an adult, especially since many other adults had always treated him as a boy, despite his numerous encounters and small victories over the wizard that they feared to even mention by name. The truth was, he had grown up very fast; his soul had seen older days than most people ever do, but at last his body was beginning the process of catching up. He smiled to himself at the irony.

_Harry…_

It came into his head again, and for the first time Harry realized that the voice saying his name was not audible, but in his head. It was a feeling on his heart more than anything, though. It is sort of like when you remember something all of the sudden, but without any surprise to it, as if you had always known and never forgotten. That is how Harry felt as he sat in his bed. He thought that it might be Voldemort trying the link between their minds again; it was pure cruelty that he should torture Harry even when they were not facing each other, and rather cowardly at that, but still, the rules in war tend to shift around. Hermione had been reading up on ways to block him out, and she seemed to be making some headway. Harry was restless, and did not know why, so he decided to go and see if Hermione could help. Since they had finally realized their feelings for each other that summer, Harry had begun to see how the brown-haired witch who had been his friend could love him, and how that love banished even a darkness as powerful as the one Voldemort embodied. She reminded him often that the sun still shines even when we cannot see it because of the clouds.

Harry was tempted to sit and reminisce about Hermione, but he decided to get up and go visit her, both to talk about the voice in his head, and about whatever else. Part of him just wanted to see her again.

The floors creaked softly in the hallways of the Burrow. Harry liked it like that. Every creak and cranny had a personality all its own; he would not have had it any other way. He reached Hermione's door and knocked on it softly. No answer. He knocked again a little louder and still there came no reply. He thought it odd because every other time he had found need to wake her up, whether for breakfast or merely to see her, she often seemed like she knew he was coming and he only barely needed to knock. This time, however, there was no response, not even a stirring inside the room.

His concentration on that matters distracted him from what was immediately going on around him. He did not hear the muted conversation occurring downstairs in the living room. Yet his focus on Hermione's door kept his attention for so long before he heard someone shriek softly, almost as a mouse squeaks. Being that Mrs. Weasley was the only woman in the house other than Hermione (Ginny was at a schoolmates for the summer), Harry assumed it was her. He walked slowly to the top of the stairs and tried to listen to what was going on, as revealing his presence might lead whoever was talking to censor it or stop altogether.

"…just got word from St. Mungo's…not good…not good…still a chance though…we need to wake them up…" said a male voice that was characteristically Mr. Weasley.

"…too upsetting…hard time enough in recent months…must not be done…let them sleep…" retorted the female voice that Harry now confirmed as Mrs. Weasley.

"But she could be dead tomorrow, Molly!" said a loud whisper.

Harry reacted instinctively, and walked as quickly and quietly downstairs as was possible.

"Who? Who could be dead? What's going on?" He asked, almost forgetting to keep his voice down because of his urgency.

Molly Weasley sighed heavily; the kind of sigh that comes only after you are in the second war of your life knowing that one is more than is fair for anyone. It was Mr. Weasley that spoke, and he did so with a sort of sad and hardened look.

"Harry, there has been an attack. I'm afraid…af- afraid…" he started to quaver a bit at this point, but he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, continuing, "…it was Hermione."

Harry felt as though he had been hit in the stomach. He could not breathe for a thousand moments, which to one experiencing it seems to take close to forever, but to everyone else seems like an instant. He steeled his eyes and voice before he spoke, very much not wanting to convey what was on his heart in that moment. Looking at Mr. Weasley, he said, "What happened, sir?"

Mr. Weasley had the look of a man who had been required to do this sort of thing before, and who had never gotten used to it.

"She was out…on an errand…and said she would be back late tonight. It was supposed to be simple, as you know she apparates very well…she was supposed to be in Diagon Alley and then out again. Someone was obviously tracking her. She is at St. Mungo's in the intensive care wing. I have to tell you Harry, she is in bad shape. They were after something when they took her, and she fought tooth and nail. The healers are not sure of exactly what curses were used against her, but the Aurors did say that there were two unconscious death eaters near her when they arrived. Apparently the others, if there were any, thought she was dead when they left. She is in a coma right now, and while the other curses mainly cut her up and tossed her about, there was something that hit her mind too. They are still looking into it, but it seems pretty bad…it's causing…well, that isn't really necessary to go into right now."

Harry heard and did not hear all that was being said. It seemed like a dream that you keep thinking you will wake up from, until you realize that the dream is reality, and you begin to wish beyond all else that the reality before you were a dream. He looked resolute and said, "I need to see her."

Molly raised her head up and said, "No dear. Go back to bed for now. We will go in the morning."

Harry fought hard to keep frustration out of his voice, "Mrs. Weasley, there may not be a tomorrow for her. If all I have with my best friend is one night left, then do not take it from me…please, I beg you, let me see her."

Mr. Weasley interjected solemnly, "I will take him. In the morning, wake Ron and bring him to St. Mungo's. We will meet you there."

Molly reluctantly agreed to this and soon Harry and Arthur were off. Harry counted the seconds it took to get there, then he counted the tiles on the floor of the hallway, and then the number of candles along the wall…anything to not think of the woman he loved dying. It was too much to consider, and Harry thought that it would be the end of his sanity if she did. This last thought was interrupted when the two of them reached the intensive care wing of the hospital. The healer, a pale haired older woman with tired eyes looked at them and directed them to the door. But then she motioned for them to come to her station, where she told them, "take care now, she is in bad shape…she probably should not even have visitors right now…"

The intense and firm face of Harry prevented another word.

"Just do take care, and do not be too shocked…she is in bad shape."

Harry walked down a sickeningly quiet and sterile hallway, wishing beyond all else that when he arrived at her room, she would be sitting there alert and very much the witty and brilliant girl he had grown to love. He hoped to find her perhaps reading a book or drinking some tea, wondering why on earth she must stay here because she felt so well. It was one of those hopes that hurt, but he did not care, it was all that kept him walking down that hallway.

Harry had seen many things in his short life. He had seen more than one person die at the hand of Voldemort or his lackeys. He had seen torture, murder, hatred, betrayal…it was too much for someone his age, and yet all those seemed poor preparation for what he felt in entering Hermione's room. She was very much alive, but very still, and laying serenely on her bed with her arms at her sides. He noticed that there was a very long gash above her right eye, which would turn into a rather flattering scar, Harry thought. She was Hermione, and yet there was something not Hermione about the person before him. Hermione would have told him to quit staring, and yet the silent figure in front of him said nothing. He would have taken her lighthearted scolding at this moment…he would have taken anything.

Harry did not have words. Arthur stood in the doorway, realizing that this was a matter in which Harry needed some room. Harry would have waited for eternity there at that bedside; he would have died standing there next to her, if it meant that she would not die. It all seemed so horribly out of order. Voldemort should be after him, it was he who the prophecy spoke of. To attack Hermione, sweet Hermione, was a cruelty that Harry had not encountered before, and cast him on the brink of endless, maddening hate, and a determination reserved for those who know that there is now way to go but forward, and forward with a ferocity few in this world have ever seen.

That timeless moment, however, was interrupted by the sound of the chief healer in the doorway. Harry turned, expecting the worst, but hanging on to the painful hope that somewhere in that horrid storm a glimmer would shine, reminding him that a very real light still shone beyond the clouds.


End file.
